


The Key

by vieralynn (sarasa_cat)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarasa_cat/pseuds/vieralynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver enjoys delicious friend fic and Isabela writes it for his pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feust/gifts).



> Written for feust for the Dragon Age Rare Pair exchange.

“You’re early,” Isabela cupped her head in one hand as she looked up from the half written page in front of her, the last two lines of ink still glistening wet. 

She nibbled at the feathered end of her quill, eyebrows raised in invitation. Carver filled the doorway to her rented room. He leaned his shoulder against one side of the doorframe, while dressed from head to toe in the full templar uniform. From two stories below, the sounds of a rowdy evening in the Hanged Man tavern echoed up the stairs and through the hall. 

“Want to see what I’ve been writing?” Isabela words were as coy as the look in her eyes.

“Only if your story makes use of the big idea I gave you during my last night of leave.”

“It might,” she shrugged. She wiped the tip of her quill clean before dropping it into a small jar. She capped her pot of ink.

“You should know by now that I’m interested.” Even the young man’s voice had a cocky swagger.

“Well then, invite yourself in.”

Carver pushed himself forward and sauntered into the room.The heavy templar armor broadened his frame and his boot heels announced each step he took.He and Isabela locked eyes until she noticed a small box that he carried in one hand.

“Ooh! Is that for me?” She licked her lips.

“It might be.”

“A present?” 

“Source material.”

“Source material?”

“You’ll see.” 

By then he was close enough to place his leather clad palm against the side of her face. He bent forward, lips almost close enough to leave a kiss on hers. Instead, he took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“Such a gentlemen,” she said.

The box was left behind on the table next to Isabela’s book, the jar that held her quill, and her pot of ink.

.

.

They made a habit of spending time together during the nights Carver received leave from his duties at the Gallows. One evening, a casual quip illuminated an open door to a possibility Isabela hadn’t considered. Who would have thought Carver had a sharper tongue than her, much less the boldness to follow through? But he did. On that first night, he knocked on the door to her room. She knew it was him before she answered and when she opened the door, she greeted him with an appraising smile. ‘Seems the templars have made you into a man,’ she said. 

Without missing a beat, Carver replied, ‘Meanwhile the boys still head over to the Rose in a pack. Safety in numbers.’ 

‘That would make you a lone wolf.’

‘You could say that.’

‘I just did.’

‘Do you plan to invite me in?’

Isabela tapped her forefinger against her lip. ‘As much as I love the look of a man in uniform…’ 

‘—You prefer a man without one.’

‘Only if I get to undress him,’ Isabela said as her grin grew wide and she took Carver by the hand.

Every fortnight Carver filled out paperwork for his night of leave and at sundown he hopped onto the ferry. Their routine became so familiar that Isabela always made a point of being back at the Hanged Man hours before Carver would arrive. Sometimes she chuckled at herself as she washed her hair, already thinking of Carver when the sun hadn’t yet gone down.

.

.

Isabela finally received a long, deep kiss from Carver, but only after his lips lingered over the knuckles of her left hand and then brushed over the knuckles of her right. 

After she caught her breath, she squared her shoulders and made the first move of their normal game. “You templars enjoy marching around like you own the place.”

“Maybe we do.”

“Since when? And how did you open my door?”

“This time Corff gave me a key.”

“Oh, did he?” This was new and she would certainly have words with Corff in the morning. “So now you think you have the keys to your own kingdom?”

“Do you plan to take it from me?”

“Yes, I plan on taking that key back.”

“You seem to forget that this is Kirkwall,” Carver said. He put his hand on Isabela’s shoulder. “The Templar Order has final authority in this city.” 

“Does it? I’m no mage, and when have I ever listened to the voice of authority?” Isabela smirked as she shrugged his hand from her shoulder and began to remove his gauntlet. 

She always took her time undressing Carver, partly as a game they both enjoyed, partly because Isabela wanted to savor each moment, stretching time out, minute by glorious minute. 

“Removing my gauntlets? You aren’t trying to steal the key from me?”

“Steal it from _you_?” Isabela laughed. “Although I must admit that stealing red-handed from one of the Chantry’s soldiers sounds deliciously sinful.”

“Stealing from the Chantry’s personnel is always a sin.”

“And it’s just the sort of sin that piques my interest.”

“You will need to figure out where I hid the key.”

“Did you just issue a challenge or an order?”

“You aren’t the type who follows orders.”

“Right you are at that.”

“If you want that key, you’ll need to take it from me.”

“And that sounds like a challenge.”

Isabela moved like the dualist she was, each attack formed by a swift set of dance steps designed to disarm. Her fingers became weapons, flicking buckles, unknotting lacings. She slipped between blocks and parries as Carver countered.

She scored her first point when she unwound the sash from Carver’s waist and snuck behind him to run the cloth over his face before dropping it on a chair. As he spun around, she sidestepped, and another buckle was undone. She stole the armored faulds from around his hips. Quick fingers loosened another set of ties and Carver’s templar skirt dropped to the floor. Another spin, another dodge. Carver’s arm guards fell by the wayside, but only after Isabela twisted herself from his grasp. They wove around the room, Isabela spinning on the balls of her feet and dropping in an instant into a crouch. She could roll faster than he could catch her, and spring up behind him, scoring two more successful strikes that fully loosened his heavy chest plate. When his hands leapt up to keep his chest plate from falling off, the gorget around his neck was left unguarded so she lifted it over his head. When he turned, she halted him with a kiss. While Carver remained distracted, she unfastened the front of his doublet, and shrugged it from his shoulders and down his arms.

“You realize I’m faster without armor,” Carver said. 

“That makes all of this more fun,” Isabela quipped.

Another dodge and she flipped his sunburst tabard up, over his head. 

Just when Carver seemed to have locked Isabela in his grasp, she slipped out and dropped down to the floor. Before Carver could stop her, she spun around and undid the buckles and straps on Carver’s leg guards. When he was down to no more than a padded shirt and pants, it took her less than a minute to unfasten its ties.

As Carver stood in his underwear, Isabela realized she had no idea where he hid the key. 

“There’s no way you could have slipped it into your smalls.”

“Do you dare check?”

“I will if I don’t find that key. Where is it?” She rummaged through Carver’s discarded armor and clothing until she found a small coin pouch. She undid the strings. Inside, she found the key nestled between a small stack of coins. “Got it.”

Isabela held the key above her top as if to dropped it into her corseted bosom. Instead, she placed the key in the jar that held her quill pen.

“You realize you have left me no choice. Now I must take you captive for what you have done,” she said. 

Carver stood soldier-straight, chin up, shoulders squared, arms at his sides.

“Alright prisoner. Strip it all off.”

In a series of quick motions, Carver removed his last minor items of clothing.

Isabela liked saying that women were good for far more things than men, but after six months of breaking Carver in, she amended that statement. Men are good for quite a few things as long as they receive confirmation for doing well. As for Carver, he thrived on receiving credit for all he knew, and this drove him to please her even more. It never took much. Isabela might say, ‘You are creative. Think of something Hawke would never consider, and then do it to me,’ and Carver always did. And not that Isabela knew how Hawke performed in bed, and not that it even mattered. Carver thrived on this style of competition and Isabela benefited.

 “I bet you never thought _that_ was possible,” Carver beamed as he lay beside Isabela in bed.

“I love a man who puts the strength of his arms to excellent use.”

“We should try it again but, next time, you should be upside-down.”

“That sounds delicious. Do you think you have the stamina for that?”

“Do you have the stamina to keep up with me?”

“Ooh. That sounds like the kind of challenge I enjoy most.”

“And I know you love challenges.”

“I do,” Isabela purred against Carver’s lips.  

She enjoyed the slow kiss that followed. She felt fully sated, terrifically satisfied with how Carver’s cockiness fed his confidence whenever she gave him the opportunity to shine.

“Do you want to read my most recent story?” she asked. 

“The one on the table?”

“That’s the one.”

Carver stepped from bed, fully naked. Isabela watched as he took his time walking across the room, putting on a show for her entertainment, him stretching out the muscles in his back and glancing over his shoulder, confirming that she knew he was showing off for her benefit. 

“This bed is getting cold,” she said, suddenly wanting him to hurry.

He snatched her book from the table along with the small box he had brought.

“The mysterious source material! Let’s have a look at it,” Isabela said.

“I want to read your story first.” Carver climbed back into bed, and dropped the box on a small bedside table before plopping the book onto one of Isabela’s pillows.

Isabela grabbed the book. “I’ll read it,” she said. 

“ _Evening couldn’t come fast enough in Kirkwall’s Keep. Seneschal Bran attempted to usher out the last of Kirkwall’s professional wheedlers and complainers. He did nothing to hide his sheer indifference toward objections from Hightown’s dowagers over the mismatched colors of potted flowers in the courtyard squares and the additional tax on venison imported from the plains. As the sun set and the light in the grand hall faded, Bran brushed past the widowed Lady Brookston, telling her she could argue with the walls about the price of Orlesian lace if she wished, but his day was done and dinner waited for—_ ” 

“Since when did you start writing stories about civic affairs?” Carver interrupted.

“I took one of your suggestions, you’ll see.”  

“Really? Did the market for smut dry up because the Keep imposed a fifty percent vulgarity tax?” 

“They wouldn’t dare and even if they did my stories are independently published and distributed.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Come on! You enjoyed my _Hardbody Dwarves_ series.”

“I liked the _Lusty Ladies of the High Seas_ better.”

“You would.” Isabela gave him a playful shove which he followed with a kiss to her lips. “So, will you let me continue?” Isabela asked.

“When does it get to the good parts?”

“The whole thing is the good part.”

“Frumpy dowagers?”

“Frustrated Seneschal Bran steaming hot beneath his collar, piercing blue eyes staring longingly at the door, the jaw of his chiseled chin set in determination as he squares his shoulders and—”

“You should put that right in the first paragraph.”

“Oh, you’re probably right.”

“Let me find the good parts” Carver pried the book from Isabela’s hands. He scanned the text of the first page before turning to the next. “Oh, this is rich!”

“It seems you found the really good part,” Isabela singsonged.

“ _Bran ran his strong hands down Serendipity’s lean, taut body. He cradled her hips in his hands, finger tips digging into her firm flesh. He leaned in to kiss her, his lips hovering over hers. ‘I love you. I need you, dear. I need you more than—’_ ” Carver turned to Isabela. “More than what?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking about that right when you arrived. More than air? More than sunlight? Water? No, more than wine— hmmm…” Isabela drummed her fingers against her bottom lip.

“For Bran, it should be ‘Serendipity, my dear, I need you more than a twenty foot oaken beam as thick as an ogre’s arm that bars the Keep’s door, keeping out the citizenry who hound me morning and afternoon with their meaningless chatter and their endless barrage of insignificant requests.’”

“That isn’t romantic.”

“It’s perfect. Just think of the comeback Serendipity would have for that line. ‘Oh, Bran, my darling, surely _you_ would let me hound you day and night with a thick oaken beam?’”

“This story is supposed to be sexy!”

“Must sex scenes always be serious and full of flowery prose?”

“My prose isn’t flowery. It’s romantic.”

“But Bran makes a career out of verbal barbs and Serendipity has a wicked sense of humor.”

“Do you really think I wrote them out of character?”

“No. It’s pretty good. The whole part during dinner was cute.”

“Aw. Carver admits that something is cute.”

“There’s always a first for everything.”

“I’m wondering what firsts we have left to try…” 

“I don’t know. Maybe you could suggest something?”

“I could, but I want to know what is inside that box you brought. Every time I look at it, I start thinking about the mysteries it holds and then I can’t think of anything else beyond poking my finger beneath the lid and slowly prying it open. Next, I’ll wiggle my finger forward, pressing in, hoping to—“

“Here, let me show you.” Carver grabbed the box and popped the lid off. 

“Hey, I was supposed to do that!”

“It sounded to me like you wanted to do something else.” Carver bumped his hip against Isabela’s. “Although I wouldn’t mind another round with _that_ in a little while.”

“I figured you would.” Isabela winked at him as she slid the box under her nose. “Oooooh! These wouldn’t be love letters, would they?”

“Some of them are.”

She thumbed through the first few letters in the box. “All of them are addressed to the circle. I knew it! You templars read through everyone’s mail.”

“No, these are different.”

Isabela walked her fingers across the top of each envelope, flipping through them one by one. “How so?”

“When Ferelden’s circle was under attack during the blight, they managed to send some of their archives to Kirkwall for safe keeping. Just look at the dates on some of these.”

“This one is from thirty-five years ago and this one is from forty-two years back.”

“They’re all old. Every single one of them.”

“So why are you interested in them?”

“I recognized one of the names as someone you know.”

“Carver, just how old do you think I am?”

“No, someone you knew just a few years ago, when you met with the Hero of Ferelden in Denerim.”

“Oh, then. Yes. There was an older circle mage named Wynne who traveled with the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Check out the letters in the back of the box.”

Isabela flipped the entire stack forward and picked through the letters starting from the back. “Here’s one addressed to Wynne, dated from the third of Haring in 8:99. And here’s another addressed to her from seventeen Guardian, 9:00. Have you read these?”

“I looked at a few. I thought you might find them interesting.”

“Reading other people’s secrets is always delicious. Let us start with this one first,” Isabela plucked the letter from late in 8:99. 

 

_White Spire, Orlais_

_3 Haring 8:99_

_Dearest Wynne,_

_The first signs of winter in Val Royeaux are already upon us. Morning’s chill remains in the air well past breakfast, and frost covers the walkways in the highest levels of the spire until the hour before high noon. I imagine that your Lake Calenhad has begun to freeze, and that the parapets around the tower collect small domes of snow. If not, you could always make some._

_It was good to see you again during your recent visit to the White Spire and I am glad to hear that your journey back to Kinloch Hold was uneventful. I have made several inquiries about the matter we spoke of when you were last here. While I cannot say for certain that my recommendation will be accepted, as First Enchanter, my word still carries some weight. Although, please understand, that what I request may be overruled by the White Spire’s Knight Commander, by our local Reverend Mother, or by the Divine herself._

_When the time comes, I will speak highly of your commitment to the welfare of the Circle of Magi and I will make a point of naming all the work you have done to further our understanding of safety when performing healing magic. I understand your desire to remain at Kinloch Hold, as that is the best place for you to continue your research with Enchanter Aldis. If the Chantry seeks to transfer you because of your current condition, I will make certain to speak against it._

_No matter their final decision, please know that your presence is always welcome at the White Spire._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_First Enchanter Reynard_

_White Spire_

 

“Wynne’s current condition, circa 8:99? Very interesting and definitely very juicy. So, tell me, Carver, is it common for a first enchanter in one circle to put in a good word for a mage at another circle in order to keep that mage from being transferred?”

“It can happen, although usually for the opposite reason — to grease the wheels for a transfer, rather than to keep a mage where they are.”

“Even when that mage’s current condition is pregnancy? Very curious. I must say my interests have been piqued.” Isabela unfolded the next letter from the box.

 

_White Spire, Orlais_

_17 Guardian 9:00_

_Dearest Wynne,_

_Winter seems longer than usual this year, although certainly Ferelden is far colder than Val Royeaux. I hope you are in good health and good spirits when you receive this._

_I enjoyed your most recent letter and am heartened to hear that you are doing well._

_Your detailed recounting of the interview you underwent with a Chantry Mother provided heavy news. No doubt they would feel it necessary to investigate your current situation and request that you divulge the name of the man with whom you had relations._

_As you may expect, the Chantry sent a representative here to speak with me, given how often we have corresponded. I let them know that you had, indeed, been involved with your mentor, and that I thought it an unwise choice for you to make, but that you are still young, you work hard, and that you have always learned from your mistakes._

_Rather than have that mage transferred here, I recommended that he be transferred to the Circle in Dairsmuid. After all, you have been permitted to visit the White Spire twice annually to attend the spirit healer’s conference. Given your current condition and what will no doubt likely come to pass, I am afraid that it would be inappropriate for you and your prior mentor to remain in close contact._

_I write these words with a heavy heart. I remember what it was like to be your age. Know only that you will grow older and wiser, and that, in the end, this is all for the best._

_I wish you a joyous Wintersend Annum._

_Yours Truly,_

_First Enchanter Reynard_

_White Spire_

  

“Well, this is unexpected.” Isabela frowned as she scanned the last paragraph one more time.

“How so?” 

“Someone was lying through their teeth. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone involved lied. I think this First Enchanter covered up the real story.”

“How can you tell?” Carver laughed. “All you have done is read two letters written decades ago.”

“I _know_ when people lie. It’s a necessary skill in my line of work.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you can sniff out lies in two short letters written more than three decades ago.”

“You know the Fereldan drunk who sits near the back wall in the tavern?”

“Which one? Half the Hanged Man is full of Fereldan drunks.”

“The one who refers to himself as the king of Ferelden.”

“Well, that narrows it down to at least a dozen men.”

“The one I knew back in Denerim. The big blond haired man named Alistair. He traveled with the Hero of Ferelden and with Wynne.”

“Oh, him. You actually believe him?”

“As I said, I knew him in Denerim. Alistair was a different man back then. Here’s the important part: one night I got drunk with him and Wynne. Those two had a bit of a mother-son relationship. After the third round of drinks, Wynne mentioned that she had a son who was ten years older than Alistair and the father of her one and only child was a _templar_. Now, look here.” Isabela slid the second letter under Carver’s nose. “This letter states that the father was a mage. Wynne’s mentor. Either the First Enchanter in Orlais was lying to cover for the real father or Wynne lied to the First Enchanter and he believed her.”

“When you read the next letter, you’ll find out that a mage named Pault was transferred all the way from Kinloch Hold, Ferelden, to the circle in Dairsmuid.”

”Deviously sneaky mages, aren’t they? A young enchanter gets knocked up by a templar, she and a first enchanter of another circle cover this fact up, the young enchanter and her templar avoid transfer, which allows them to stay together, and another mage gets a transfer to Rivain, of all places. Did you know that the mages in Dairsmuid’s circle pretty much come and go as they please? Nothing like your Gallows. Although very little in Rivain is like Kirkwall, for better or for worse. ” 

“Mages are not allowed to make deals behind the scenes to get transferred to the circle of their choice, but it happens, sometimes.” Carver sighed. “All it takes is a sympathizer high up the chain. They create the right paper trail and the Chantry approves. But don’t think it happens often. This sort of thing is rare or else everyone would start doing it and the Chantry would crack down.”

“So, you were right. You _did_ bring me good source material.”

“I know what you like.”

“You certainly do.”

“Do I get a finder’s reward?”

“I think you deserve one.”

“If my finder’s reward is good enough, I might feel compelled to look for similar items.”

“I might be interested.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“You know, this makes the perfect story. Two forbidden lovers know they will be separated but then they learn of someone who is willing to sacrifice himself for their love, except he finds a way to go exactly where he has always wanted to be. This is so much better than one of Varric’s guards and robbers tales. Secret meetings in the middle of the night, stolen kisses in dark alcoves and stairwells. Passionate lovemaking behind bookshelves.”

“Right up your alley, just as I thought.”

“I need to read the rest of these letters.”

“Hey, I’ve got to be back at the Gallows by sunrise!”

“Oh, you do?”

“Unlike you, I am expected to be somewhere bright and early in the morning.”

“Well, _that_ certainly doesn’t sound like fun.”

“But I am here right now and neither of us would want to miss out on a night of good fun. Fiction can wait for later.”

“When you put it like that…” Isabela purred as she closed the box of letters. She stacked the box on top of her book and pushed them toward Carver. “Wouldn’t you like to stretch for a moment and put these over on the table next to my pen and ink set?”

“Do I get something in return for putting away your things?”

“The key you got from Corff. It’s inside the jar holding my pen.”

Carver flashed her a smug grin before he walked across the room. After placing Isabela’s book and the letters on the table, Carver fished the room key out of the jar. He held it up as he turned to face her. “You really mean it?”

“Put it in your pouch before I change my mind,” she replied.

Carver shrugged. 

“Do I have to say it a third time?”

Carver shook his head. He undid the ties on his pouch and dropped the key in. 

Without another word, he returned to her bed and into her arms. 


End file.
